Poem: garden of peace
Sweet banana, warm potato, swinging hammocks, warm chamomile tea that tastes like sweet relief, the taste of nothing, and everything, cleaning, purging, tears like cleansing waters, sparks of inner light, children laughing, playing, the soft caress of kittens tail. The sweet smell of Amazon rain, petrichor, small and medium butterflies the size of your palm, colors of your heart, dancing, twirling, to the river of your blood, your beauty. Grandfather stone of time holds you with patience, stability, strength, honor, grumbling, and gruffing, pushing you with ease to grow, open, and know when it's time to close, protect, and surrender control.
Darkness, Void, the smell of grime and musk, grave diggers, burying the souls of once lost and forgotten, shame, hate, envy, greed, self-disgust, she holds you, Madre Selva, without judgment and a second thought. Hunger, thirst, starvation, the taste of blood, weeping and crying of a grieving mother, a ridiculed father, screaming, trembling, clinging to another, filling cup that is already full.
Sun rays burst through jungle leaves, one long screeching cheap, good morning, let it wake you, or let it shake you, a divinely orchestrated symphony, buzzing, creaking, one, two, three condors, dancing, weaving, playing interior of my soul, unwinding the mind, opening to the listening of the body. Dragonflies pause, buzz, zoom, and look, guiding me through the forest with discernment and concern for all surrounding me.
Restless, sleepless nights, thoughts churning, stomach grumbling, night terrors, peace-less nights, lost, spiraling, aches, pains, groans, upward, downward, invigorating chaos, always teaching, learning, letting go of wisdom-less knowledge.
Alone, afraid, stuck between self and other, desire to merge as one, solitude, laughter, playful joy, voice quivers, needing help, ashamed to ask, no more running, ignoring, a brother, a sister, always there, community, home, remembrance.
Squirrels playing, monkeys swinging, dark, treacherous valley, slip, fall, moonlit hilltops, open space, fresh air, breathing room, sacred rivers to cleanse the soul.
Mapacho smoke rolling down my chest, intertwining roses, multidimensional dragons, visions, constant, extraterrestrial jaguars, eating through my burdened tissue like I'm its prey, inexplicable magic, hallways of shapes, through doorways, cleaning soul, Rishin, suck, pull, cup, spit, the majesty of a true soplarenguare magician.
Abuelita is angry, Selva sick, shaken, and disturbed by control, manipulation, mind tricks, abuse, motherhood, human hood shattered, and floods and fires are coming.
The beauty of the chaos, and darkness, makes you choke, unable to speak, breathless, overwhelmed, and scared; you grasp. Still, she reminds you it's always there, the magic, miracles, strength of your prayer, power to surrender to the sweet relief of beauty, never alone.
So be a steward to Pachamama, yourself, and this land we call home; find community, make yourself useful, find a skill, keep pushing, growing, healing, learning, and always take your advice.
